


Constituent Services

by rileys



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Cohabitation, Eventual Romance, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Slash, Reunited and It Feels So Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:48:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3618750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rileys/pseuds/rileys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd spent four years trying to forget about Nick, and there wasn't even anything to “forget”.</p>
<p>Just five months of constant prep and voter contact, three months of the most desperate and personal campaign Phil had ever run, and one minute in the hotel ballroom on Election Night—where they melted into the crowd to stare at the final results on the projector, and Nick's hand grabbed Phil's sleeve, then his wrist, then his hand, and Phil clutched it back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Constituent Services

**Author's Note:**

> terrible, terrible things happen when you work Field for a few years, namely, you start planning AUs about small-time state legislators, or worse, campaign managers. 
> 
> bad news: this AU is happening to me very fast. worse news: there will absolutely be more. for now, let's hope it's out of my system.
> 
> (also, oh dear god, writing in past tense. it took days to remember how to write in past tense)

 

Phil kept his eyes fixed on his spreadsheet, one hand feeling at the stack of printed emails to flip to the next one, ignoring the fifth phone call in two hours.

It only took a glance to spot _S ROGERS / S WILSON_ on the caller ID, same as the last four. Phil's phone buzzed pitifully on the table, resting on a dishtowel to keep the vibration noise low.

Their first mistake was giving Phil their number in the first place, once they found out he was in town. It was understandable—the last time they worked with Phil was in '10, when Rogers and Wilson were just a couple of interns in the Party office, and Phil was hardly ever _off_ his phone.

Their second mistake was telling Phil that they'd be in charge of the regional Field office this year.

Their third mistake was even thinking that Phil would answer the phone for anyone with “Field” in their job title at 10:26 at night, on a Tuesday, in _March._

After a few more seconds of plaintive buzzing, the phone finally went quiet again, screen dimming again. Phil watched it with a warning raise of his eyebrow, then turned back to the pile of emails.

Printing them all out wasn't exactly keeping with the “green” initiatives over at the General Assembly building, but Nick liked to have paper copies. Everything either went into a folder for follow-ups, or got shredded and dutifully recycled, all the more quickly now that Phil was helping out.

It was really the least Phil could do, considering.

Stifling a yawn, he set his fingers on the keyboard and started to read the next email, blindly typing out the relevant information; contact info, neighborhood, number of emails about the issue, type of complaint, level of urgency, level of distress. Those last two were very different things.

_Case in point_ , Phil thought, eyes drifting through an ALLCAPS paragraph with more exclamation points than it even knew what to do with. After getting past the usual, 'civic association' this, 'ten phone calls to the county' that, he finally spotted the root of the problem.

“The pot hole,” Phil read aloud under his breath, “Is a dangerous hazard and a blight on our street, and must be fixed as soon as possible. An image is attached.”

Indulging himself more than the constituent, he grinned and turned the page to the photo attachment. Nothing remarkable at first glance, just a photo of a vaguely familiar suburban street. It took a solid few seconds for him to finally spot it: a small, shallow divot near the speed bump, barely a few chips taken out by a snowplow, the terrible blight in all its glory.

“Amazing,” Phil said, flipping back and smiling fondly at the desperately-capitalized email.

From across the room, Nick's voice wearily asked: “You're not still up reading those, are you?”

Phil swiveled in his chair to look towards the hall. Nick smiled tiredly and raised his mug in greeting, leaning in the doorway, all soft lines in a heavy college hoodie and heavier sweatpants, well-bundled.

Considering the winter they'd had, and were _still_ fighting even in the last week of March, it was a miracle the road damage wasn't worse this year; Nick's constituents would find something to write about no matter what, but they could at least give him a break on the road complaints.

“You're one to talk,” Phil said, glancing to the mug in Nick's hands for emphasis. “You have to drive down to Leg Hall in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Nick said into the rim of his mug. “But I get _paid_ to not sleep enough.”

“I don't mind,” Phil chuckled, turning back to his spreadsheet. “My phone would just wake me up anyway. Not sure if it's Rogers or Wilson, but someone really wants my attention.”

“Why?” sighed Nick, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Not sure yet,” Phil said. “But whatever it is, it's apparently worth calling five times on a week night.” He breathed in to speak, when the phone began quietly buzzing on the dishtowel again. Giving it a cursory glance, Phil smirked, and turned back to Nick. “Okay. Six times. Four of them after 8.”

"They're in Field," Nick said slowly, staring at the phone as it rang. "Dialing a phone after 8 should make them self-destruct."

"Well, that's what I tell the people who build the Field-Bots," Phil deadpanned, watching the tiredness on Nick's face give way to a quiet chuckle. "But they tell me, no, no, can't implement that until 2020. This year's big improvement is making them run entirely on coffee."

"Thought that was standard last time?"

"No," Phil said, turning back to his spreadsheet, "Last cycle's models needed coffee _and_ alcohol."

“Right.” Resting his face in his hand, Nick kneaded at his forehead. "How could I forget?"

Laughing to himself, Phil turned back to the pile of emails and started scanning the next page for contact information. quick words— _road, graffiti, tree, nuisance, landlord,_ anything to cut through the pile more easily.

"You eat anything yet?" Nick asked, passing Phil's chair on the way to the kitchen sink.

"Nah," Phil said distractedly, starting to type up a complaint about a dead tree in someone's side yard. "Want to do a few more of these." He stopped, mentally rewinding. "What about you?"

“No.” Nick poured the contents of his mug out, translucent, probably more of the peppermint tea he'd taken to drinking at night instead of coffee. Now that someone else was up helping with constituent services, he didn't have to put in so many late nights before Legislative Session days.

Phil was happy to help, honestly. It was the least he could do.

“Actually, now that you mention it,” Nick said, rinsing out his mug. “You wearing shoes?”

“I refuse to answer that at this time, on the grounds that I don't know if the trash has been taken out yet,” Phil replied as he reflexively CTRL+S-ed and stood from his chair. “Except, yes.”

“Good,” Nick said, grabbing his car keys off the counter. “We're getting food.”

“As an excuse to stop reading about road damage?” Phil asked, grinning at him. “Or because Pepper gave you all those coupons?”

Smirking at Phil from the side door, toeing into his shoes, Nick warned: "You want your Shamrock Shake, or what?"

"First you invite me into your home in my time of need, and now you offer to use a coupon on me," Phil sighed as he followed Nick, with as much fake, half-sarcastic adoration as he could layer on to hide the actual, very real feeling underneath. "I should be a testimonial on the lit pieces this fall. 'Nick Fury: He Cares'."

"Yeah, yeah," Nick laughed, pushing the screen door open.

That was all Phil needed. He'd worked hard at this, carefully crafting all these joking shields to keep from saying it aloud—how really, honestly grateful beyond words he was for all of this.

If he said it, he might start explaining, and they'd both spent the past two months trying to avoid that. Phil, for his part, had just tried to keep things light, and made himself useful with little things; running errands, putting in some hours at night so Nick could sleep. Phil was especially happy to handle that part.

Nick used to drive himself half to exhaustion, awake into the early morning, always trying to do whatever he could for people who reached out.

Phil knew that better than anyone.

 

* * *

 

**Sent:** 01/04/2014, 2:46:03 AM

**To:** nick.fury@s1c1d06.legis.gov  
**From:**  phil.coulson@dxdems.org  
**Subj:**  Information Request

Hello, Representative Fury,

I am sending this email as a former resident of your district. I have recently returned to the area and have a few questions about resources. Do you know of anyone who I could contact regarding:

\- insurance/patient advocacy dealing with insurance claims

\- resources for temporary housing (ASAP if possible)

I understand that legislative matters keep you busy. Thank you for taking the time to read this.

\- Phil Coulson

 

 

* * *

 

“All right,” Phil admitted, unbuckling his seat belt as Nick parked, facing out towards the highway. “This was a good idea.”

“Damn right,” Nick said with a grin, accepting the straw Phil offered him and pushing it down into his shake. Nick turned off the car, fishing his fries out of the bag while Phil settled in.

Phil looked out the window at the passing cars, then some teenagers jaywalking out from under the faint orange glow of a streetlight. Heading back to Overlook, probably. Past them, Phil could see the same old thrift store that had held its spot in the shopping center for years; further out, a new hardware store, an old deli, a newsstand.

“Still can't believe the bookstore closed,” Phil said, more to himself than anything.

“Yeah,” Nick sighed. “I've been talking to Pepper about small businesses out here, but that's just pulling weeds,” he said, idly stirring his shake. “At the root of things, Claytown still hasn't really picked back up since the refinery closed.”

“So I've seen,” Phil said, smiling sadly out at the highway.

He'd spent the past two months finding his footing here again, figuring out what had changed. Buildings were gone here and there, new businesses or desperate real estate signs in their places. A restaurant two blocks away had burned down. Redistricting, well, that was a whole other story.

Phil had felt pretty relieved, seeing the Legislative index a few weeks ago; Nick still had his seat in the 6th, and Pepper Potts had held down her spot in the 7th. Even the ever-unbearable Justin Hammer still held the 10th Rep district, despite his tight primary with Tony Stark and his tighter race with Stern in '12. Better the devil you know, is how Nick described that whole situation.

It felt strange to be here again, among all the same people, same roads, same Party staff.

Same old Nick Fury, muttering about other state legislatures, glad that at least here they had full participation in the Medicaid expansion.

Phil watched Nick talk, half-silhouetted in headlights from the intersection, faint green on his skin from the traffic signal. The light caught Nick's face with just a slight asymmetry, yellow and then red reflecting in his good eye and his glass one, the difference almost imperceptible.

He looked older.

Well. Of course he did, of course everyone else did. Of course things had changed.

The past four years had rushed by Phil faster than he knew what to do with; out here, it seemed they'd kept their usual crawl, and dragged Nick slowly along with them.

“Every inch of the safety net helps,” Nick was saying, gnawing on the straw with the corner of his mouth. “But try telling that to these clowns.”

Phil smiled, hiding it with a bite of cheeseburger as fast as he could. However Nick looked, he was still the same as ever. It was easy for Phil to just let his mind drift, and imagine things were the same as back in '10, just the two of them holed up with literature and election district maps, and volunteer lists. It was all still so easy.

Which was kind of the whole problem, and the whole reason this was all so strange.

Nick hadn't asked any questions about this; not about Phil's circumstances, not about the email.

Not about Election Night when the returns came in, not about Phil's hand on Nick's shoulder as cheers erupted in surprise around them, not about Phil slipping quietly through the crowd out a side door.

Not about the campaign office already being clean by morning, or Phil's small thank-you card left on the desk.

Not about four years since then, or Nick's occasional un-anwered emails, or Nick's scattered un-answered phone calls trailing off into nothing, as the last two years slipped by them in silence.

Sitting in the passenger seat of Nick's car, listening to Nick quietly process frustration from the Legislative session, hearing the faint fuzzy droning of the low radio, Phil caught himself watching Nick with a hesitant, uneasy explanation knotted up in his chest.

He could almost taste the words, chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from trying them. And like all the other times in the past two weeks, he pushed it down.

Looking for a distraction from his bad and worse ideas, Phil felt at his pocket for his phone, dimly realizing he'd left it on the table at home—at _Nick's house_ he mentally corrected himself, a small pang of guilt in his chest. Weird, it was weird to call it “home”, he told himself.

He was only digging himself deeper, at this point.

Staring out the windshield, he watched another pair of kids on the crosswalk, talking and laughing, one gently shoving the other's shoulder.

Beside Phil, Nick kept talking—an old habit he'd only just fallen back into with Phil in the past couple weeks, mumbling about whatever was on his mind. He preferred Phil tune him out and not respond; he was just looking for someone to physically be within hearing range. Back in the old days, it helped him get his head clear before he talked to voters. Now, Phil imagined it helped him get his thoughts straight for the in-session days.

Phil's thoughts wandered, his hand again feeling at his empty pocket, muscle memory.

Even if he did have his phone, he already knew where he'd look. His thumb had memorized the sequence, instantly flicking to his inbox, to his conversations, to Nick's cell number, to January 4th, to 2:48 a.m..

Phil didn't even need to see them, though. The image stuck fast in his brain, three small texts from Nick, burned into his memory for the past two months.

He smiled, taking another bite of his cheeseburger and turning his head away to look out the window.

Watching the cars pass by, he listened to Nick's voice, and the tinny sound of the nearly-muted radio, and when he blindly reached into the bag for a fry, his hand bumped into Nick's, and he felt the world slip out from under him for a moment.

 

* * *

  
>(FURY, NICK RD6-D)  
>1/4/2014 2:48 AM  
>>phil, got your email. where are you? you all right?

 

_> (FURY, NICK RD6-D)_  
>1/4/2014 2:49 AM  
>>its ten degrees out, are you sleeping in your car or something

 

_> (FURY, NICK 2D6-D)_  
>1/4/2014 2:50 AM  
>>whatever's going on, don't worry about it. just come over.

 

* * *

 

The drive back passed uneventfully, quiet except the few minutes stuck at an intersection within view of Justin Hammer's house, and all the jokes that followed.

Walking back into Nick's house, Phil yawned and stretched his arms over his head, wincing at the faint soreness in his side. A flicker of old, useless fear ran down his spine, something he'd learned to shake off pretty quickly in the past year. _To be expected_ , they'd told him at the hospital, aeons ago, _If it's still happening in a few months, get a shrink_.

By the time 'a few months' had come and gone, Phil had other problems to worry about.

Sighing, he rubbed at his eyes to shake off that entire train of thought.

“Get some sleep,” Nick chuckled, walking past him to the table and looking at the email on top of the pile. “I promise, these will still be here in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Phil said, smiling and hoping it looked more tired than forced. “Not a bad idea.”

“You save this?” Nick asked, pointing to the spreadsheet. Phil nodded. “Okay if I close it?” Phil nodded again. “All right,” Nick said, pushing the laptop closed.

Phil could feel his hollow smile turning warm, pushing at the sides of his face. Back in the old days, Phil used to ask one of the interns to close his laptop for him if he needed to walk away from it; as soon as Phil got eyes on the screen, he'd think of twenty things he wanted or needed to do. Better that someone just take it out of his hands.

He was kind of amazed Nick still remembered things like that.

“Yeah,” Phil repeated, picking up his phone and tucking his hands into his pockets along with it. “Sleep sounds good.”

Nick nodded slowly, clear agreement, as he yawned into his hand.

“Surprised you're bringing your phone up,” Nick said, as Phil followed him up the stairs. “How many missed calls from Rogers and Wilson since we left?”

“Looked like it passed ten,” Phil said, pulling his phone out again and double-checking. “Ah. Twelve.”

“Just block the damn number,” Nick laughed, “They'll send an email if they have any sense.”

“Some things never change,” said Phil. “How many times did they call Bruce every day, way back when? Rough year to be an RFD.”

“There's a reason he spends half his time on the farm now,” Nick said.

At the top of the stairs, Nick paused, looking thoughtful as he stepped aside to let Phil past him into the hall.

“Forget something?” Phil asked.

“No,” Nick said, resting a hand against the wall and idly tapping his fingers against it. “Hey, Phil...” he started to say, with more gravity than Phil was used to, and Phil half-consciously leaned against the guest room door, trying to seem nonchalant.

“Yeah?”

“I... no, never mind,” Nick said distantly, shaking his head. He stepped back from the stairs, towards the bedroom. “Just thinking.”

Even as Phil felt relieved to let it drop, his mouth started to move, and he heard himself ask: “What about?”

“Talking about Banner's farm got me thinking about old times,” Nick said, smirking. “Like the first time I ever talked your ear off.”

Phil grinned back, and replied: “You did make a good impression.”

Honestly, that was putting it mildly.

Nick had done more than just make a good impression, the day they all tracked snow into Bruce's farmhouse four years ago. He'd helped Howard Stark with his campaigns back in '04, and '06, and '08, a dedicated and long-time volunteer; when Howard finally decided to give up his seat, he brought Nick and his old campaign manager with him to sit around Bruce Banner's kitchen table.

Bruce, providing supporter housing for Phil for a failed issue-advocacy campaign across the state line, had brought Phil downstairs for his perspective. Phil, still smarting from their failures in the next county over, had dragged himself to the table, with a headache and his thoughts still lingering on his half-packed suitcase and his pending lease.

He'd dreaded the conversation; Howard's retirement meant opening up his seat to the other side after a decade and a half of landslide victories. Howard had his bipartisan appeal, his history, his legislative record.

With nothing better to do, Phil had reluctantly sat and half-heard Howard Stark talk about all of those things, and then he'd watched Howard pull his chair aside, letting his long-term volunteer start to talk about the 6th.

And Phil had stared, and watched, and listened, as Nick Fury spent the next five minutes laying out everything he valued about Howard's record, and everything he hoped to see done differently, and everything he wanted to see in Howard's replacement, if the Party was trying to find someone. Nick was serious, passionate. Phil was transfixed.

“Well, heck, we should just run you,” is what Howard said, at the time.

And he'd laughed, and Nick had laughed, and so had Phil, and Bruce, until Phil saw something thoughtful in Nick's eyes—something Howard must have spotted, too, because a moment later, Howard turned to Nick and said, “Actually. Let's be serious. What if you ran?”

Phil would never forget the tiny flicker of hope in Nick's eyes, the sudden drawing back, the faint edge of nervous energy in his laugh as Nick scoffed: “Yeah, me? As a first-time candidate, and with no campaign manager?"

And Phil would never forget the sudden urging he'd felt at that moment—like all of his failures and his pessimism and his forlorn half-packed suitcase were yanked away from him all at once—as his mouth opened of its own accord, as he leaned closer across the table, and he looked Nick in the eyes, and asked: “When can I start?”

It all felt so far away, now. Like another life.

“Yeah, you were a good sounding board for those,” Nick said, drawing Phil out of his thoughts as he leaned on the guest room door. “Definitely took some practice to make a good impression on the _voters_ , but we got there.”

“Hey, from what I can see, your district loves you,” Phil said. “If I find somewhere local to stay, I'm looking forward to hearing how this year's run goes.”

“Well,” Nick said slowly.

Phil felt regret setting in fast. He let his guard down on that one—he'd tried hard not to talk about these things, about the endless failure to find somewhere else to stay, or the constant stream of electronic statements in his inbox, or the piles of failed applications.

He'd always known Nick to be pragmatic, task-oriented, never one to let people off the hook. Phil was waiting for the other shoe to drop, the way it would with any reasonable person.

Watching him from across the hall, Nick said quietly: “Don't feel like you have to hurry on out of here, all right?”

Surprised, Phil couldn't quite muster a response right away, or play it off.

“Been kinda nice, having you around,” Nick went on, and he smiled a little, softer than Phil was used to seeing from him. Pushing his bedroom door open, heading inside, Nick chuckled: “Now get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” Phil breathed, fumbling for the doorknob to the guest room. “Yeah, uh.” He laughed quietly in spite of himself, rubbing at his tired eyes. “G'night.”

“Night, Phil,” Nick replied.

Phil headed into the guest room, closing the door softly behind him.

Fingertips pressing at his forehead, he sighed heavily, leaning his back against the door. His phone weighed heavily in his pocket, and in a moment of weakness, Phil reached down to pull it out.

His thumb moved on autopilot across the screen, into his texts.

Biting at the inside of his mouth, Phil stopped himself, closing his eyes tightly and lobbing the phone onto the bed, out of his hands and away.

Sighing again, he rubbed at the back of his neck, sore from poor posture at the laptop all afternoon. He looked uselessly around the room, at the small pile of suitcases still only half-unpacked, at the keys on the dresser for the beat-up car out front.

Two months ago, he'd shown up on Nick's doorstep carrying his whole life in his hands.

Four years without so much as a word, and all Nick did when he answered the door was bring Phil a cup of coffee and walk him up to the guest room, resting a steady hand on his shoulder. ” _Don't worry about it. Get a shower. Get some sleep._

Maybe it was Rogers and Wilson calling today, or talking about the bookstore closing, Phil didn't know. He was having a harder time than usual shaking things off.

He flopped down on the bed, frowning up at the ceiling, refusing to look at his phone and its twelve missed calls. Whatever Rogers and Wilson thought Phil was in town for, they were wrong. He was only here at the end of his options, getting back on his feet.

He wasn't here to work Field again. Definitely not with Nick, especially not with Nick.

Phil rubbed a hand over his face and groaned miserably into his palm, exhausted just thinking about it. He had to stop running in circles on this whole mess.

He just had to keep trying to find other options. For now, this was fine. This would end. He wouldn't overstay his welcome, he wouldn't get himself all caught up again. He definitely wouldn't get close to Nick again.

He'd spent four years trying to forget about Nick, and there wasn't even anything to “forget”.

Just five months of constant prep and voter contact, three months of the most desperate and personal campaign season Phil had ever run, and one minute in the hotel ballroom on Election Night, where they melted into the crowd to stare at the final results on the projector, and Nick's hand grabbed Phil's sleeve, then his wrist, then his hand, and Phil clutched it back.

They'd watched the slow scroll down to the 6th Rep District, with all results in—the crowd had cheered, their Field team turning all at once to Nick, and in that instant Phil let go and made himself a ghost in the crowd, gone already, with something throbbing in his chest, bright, and relieved, and awful, and scared.

Four years of work to forget that feeling.

Four years of all that work to forget, and hoping Nick would just forget about him, too, and now this.

He stared up at the ceiling, fumbling blindly for his phone and hating every second of it.

His hand moved faster than his better judgment could keep up with, flicking through the same old motions, two months of practice.

>>INBOX

>>>>CONVERSATIONS

>>>>>>NICK FURY (RD6-D)

He scrolled all the way down, sighing at himself as the past two months of easy conversation flashed by, all reminders about errands or simple questions, little day-to-day things.

The list stopped scrolling, and Phil stopped, and closed his eyes, and pushed his phone away, blindly setting it on the bedside table without looking.

He had to stop doing this. There was no answer there, no explanation, no matter how hard Phil looked at them, or how many times.

There were a hundred questions Nick Fury could have asked him, _should_ have asked him, that any other person reasonably would have asked Phil at that moment, or even the first night of letting him crash, or at least in the two months since.

A hundred questions, and Nick Fury only asked him two.

Phil sighed, reaching up and laying an arm over his eyes, trying to block out the light from the window as if it might help him think.

He needed to sleep. That's all.

Kicking off his pants and fumbling out of his sweater—barely touching old lines of stitches and no, not tonight, Phil was not letting himself about that at all tonight—he hastily got under the old, worn blankets, and closed his eyes, glad to have tired them out on the computer screen all night.

He'd wake up in the morning with some sense back in his head. He'd run some errands. He'd look for more Field jobs somewhere else, or even something part-time to save money. He'd figure something out.

Phil pressed his face into the pillow, shaking all the thoughts away, breathing out slowly.

Sleep wrapped slow and warm around him, pulling him down, until the guest room melted away around him.

He dreamed of cold winter sunlight through a window, and the kitchen table at the farmhouse. Outside in the distant paddock, the horses trotted out in the melting snow to meet Bruce at the fence, Howard Stark at his side. On the way up the stairs, Phil couldn't stop talking and neither could Nick, their voices quiet and their eyes bright with daring, as Phil pulled a spiral notebook from his suitcase and ripped the old pages free.

He wrote clear and sure across the top of the fresh page, _TEAM FURY_ , grinning, and only grinning harder as he listened to Nick's still-uncertain laughter. They sat in the old wooden chairs at the table, with Nick still reasonably hesitant but not at all what Phil would call afraid, and that was good enough. They began to work.

The dream lingered, slow and quiet, all cold winter air and too much coffee, and something new and alive pouring out of Phil onto the paper between them, sunlight slowly dimming to orange around them, their shadows stretching longer and longer across the farmhouse floor.

Phil slept, and all he saw were things he never had any chance of forgetting.

 

* * *

 

_Dear Representative-Elect Fury,_

_Excuse my messy handwriting, I am writing this with one foot out the office door, but wanted to congratulate you._

_It has been a pleasure to work with you these past 8 months. I was inspired by your determination and your concern for the 6th District. Clearly, so were the voters; turnout was up 10% in the 6th from '08 (if you don't believe me, ask Banner). A campaign manager can only do so much; as a first-time candidate, you have earned the respect of your neighbors and soon-to-be colleagues at Leg Hall._

_But, as you know, Field never stops. I got a call about some issue-advo (confidential for now, I'm sorry to say), and they needed an immediate answer. I made sure to buy stationery and small gift cards for star volunteers, though I regret I did not have time to actually fill them out this morning. Hopefully, the interns aren't too hung over from all of the Election Night excitement; I'm sure by the time you get in and read this, they'll be up to the task._

_Thank you for all of your hard work. As a former resident of your district, I know you'll do us proud._

_Warmest regards,_

_Phil Coulson_

_November 3_ _rd_ _, 2010_

 


End file.
